I squeeze my eyes so tightly shut they burn.
Tears streak down my temples.
“Say it again. Say it when you’re sober.”
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t fucking breathe.
My hand shakes so violently the phone almost slips from my fingers.
“I died every fucking day you didn’t come see me.”
A sound leaves me?—
not a sob,
not a cry,
something rawer.
Something deeper.
Something like grief twisted into desire.
“Every letter you returned… I kept them.”
A sharp inhale cuts my lungs.
I drag my knees tighter to my chest, folding around the pain, the truth, the goddamn way he says it like he’s pressing his thumb into an open wound.
The sofa fabric soaks my tears.
“You asked me not to hate you.”
My breath stutters painfully.
“I don’t.”
The words destroy me.
Destroy me.
My hand slips from my mouth because I’m shaking too hard to hold it there.
Another sob rips free?—
loud,
harsh,
humiliating.
My shoulders shake uncontrollably.
“I could never hate you.”
